


I, Rebel

by Aurae



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Seduction, First Kiss, First Meetings, M/M, Rare Male Slash Exchange 2019, Recruitment, Undercover, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-06-10 02:11:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19489285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurae/pseuds/Aurae
Summary: The mission brief was simple: to get himself into Organa’s good graces and, once close enough, to give him a vibroknife in the gut.





	I, Rebel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Wavesinger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/gifts).



They said the Clone Wars ended years ago. They said the Republic won the war against the Confederacy, but the Republic was no longer a Republic. They said the Republic was an Empire now. They said the Galactic Senate and its democratically-elected Senators had voted in favor of making Sheev Palpatine an Emperor-for-Life. They said a heck of a lot of things, actually.

Cassian Andor didn’t much care to listen to any of the things they said—the reason being that _they_ obviously didn’t know much of anything. He’d been fighting since he was six years old, and he’d never stopped. Nope, not once. War was pretty much the only thing he knew, in fact, but he also knew that he was very, very good at it. 

It wasn’t like _nothing_ had changed over the years, though. Cassian had grown older and grown up, for one thing, and he no longer fought the war on the front lines of a battlefield. His talent with a blaster rifle had taken him out of the muddy, bloody trenches and into the secretive realm of sniper warfare and covert assassinations. From there, he’d gone into straight intelligence gathering. Spying. As a consequence, he hadn’t killed anyone at all for two months as of today!

Come to think of it, this was his longest dry spell since they’d put that first blaster rifle in his soft six-year-old’s hands, pointed in the direction of the enemy, and ordered him to fire. But if everything went according to plan and Cassian got just a little bit lucky, that dry spell would be ending tonight with the death of one Bail Organa, Imperial Senator from Alderaan.

The mission brief was simple: to get himself into Organa’s good graces and, once close enough, to give him a vibroknife in the gut.

The main trick was to do this undetected.

“Local staff liaison?” a harried official asked. He barely even bothered a glance of acknowledgement at Cassian.

“Yes, sir, that’s me,” Cassian replied.

“Get in there, and hurry it up!” The harried official gestured vaguely in the direction of the Imperial delegation to Fest. “We’re already behind schedule.”

Cassian started forward in the indicated direction. The evident head of the delegation was a handsome male human of vigorous middle age dressed in finely brocaded royal blue robes with wide, puffed sleeves. He recognized the man’s olive complexion and dark hair and goatee well enough from the holovids; this was Senator Bail Organa. Had to be.

Organa was well-known on Fest because he was well-known throughout the galaxy. A strong and outspoken supporter of the Republic during the Clone Wars, he’d been the public face of the “benevolent” Republic which brought philanthropic aid—food, medicine—to war-torn regions. Later, as Ranking Member of the Reconciliation Committee of the Imperial Senate, he’d been at the forefront of efforts to bring former Confederate systems under the Emperor’s protection and provide assistance with reconstruction and development. Cassian was sure it was all just playacting; Empire meant absolute dictatorship and the wholesale exploitation of its subjects, and everyone knew it. That Organa’s public face was such a pleasingly attractive one, to Cassian’s mind, added insult to injury.

Nevertheless, “reconciliation” _was_ the ostensible reason Organa was on a backwater Outer Rim planet like Fest. Reconciliation, ha! _Real_ Festian patriots like Cassian would show the Empire tonight that polite, empty words and grand, empty gestures would not placate people who’d been resisting the tyranny of centralized, out-of-touch government for over a decade.

Organa _was_ awfully handsome, though—even more so in the flesh than in the holovids. A shame such a fine-looking man was going to have to die for the cause.

“My handler, I presume?” Organa asked Cassian slid into the empty chair besides him at the banquet table.

“Yes, sir. I’m Willix, sir,” Cassian replied, doing his best to act suitably youthful and backwater-naïve. “Anything you need, sir, I’m here.”

Serious diplomatic negotiations were, in the civilized galaxy, typically preceded by an evening of dining, entertainment, and informal opportunities to socialize, and Fest, of course, wished to appear civilized. To this end, the local government had provided all visitors with local staff liaisons—glorified crosses between cultural translators and personal assistants—for the week-long duration of their stay.

“Thank you, Willix,” Organa said. “I’m sure I will come to rely greatly upon your assistance.”

There was nothing in Organa’s tone which suggested anything other than utmost professionalism. But it would be…better…yes, _easier_ for Cassian to do his _real_ job, if their relationship were to take on a decidedly different character. Hesitantly, as if greatly daring, he brushed the back of Organa’s hand, feather-light, with the tips of his fingers. “ _Anything_ you need, sir,” Cassian repeated with a subtle change in emphasis.

Suddenly, Organa’s dark eyes were focused with laser-like intensity upon Cassian. The message had been received exactly as Cassian had intended, but Organa’s expression was inscrutable. He hoped the man would prove susceptible to such sexual overtures.

“It would be an honor, sir…and a pleasure,” he added, allowing his gaze to wander appreciatively down Organa’s body before lifting it again to meet and hold his eyes boldly. Brash but sincere in his desire, projecting experience, but not too much. Truth was always more convincing than fiction, and it was easy to imagine enjoying having Organa in his bed, unwrapping that olive-hued body from its royal blue robes, discovering the unique beauty of its lines and planes and curves, making it respond to his touch. Cassian thought he’d enjoy that a lot, actually. His skin warmed; his pulse quickened; and a sweet, heavy ache of arousal began to gather in his loins…

“Hmm. Talented, I take it,” Organa mused, stroking his goatee. The corners of his mouth were quirking upwards. The rest of the galaxy seemed to fall away…job, what job? Cassian desperately wanted to kiss that mouth…

…and all of a sudden, he was. But he hadn’t kissed Organa; Organa was kissing _him_ , and it was better than Cassian had imagined. He groaned as Organa deepened the kiss, nipping at his lower lip, teasing with his tongue, and Cassian didn’t care where they were, didn’t care about the banquet or who would see. He pressed himself closer to Organa, fitting their chests together, sinking into a mutual embrace, feeling the hardness between his legs pushed against an answering hardness between Organa’s—

“My, my, my. What an impressive vibroknife that is, Willix. Ooohhh, and sharp too. You could kill somebody with a blade like this if you aren’t careful.”

Cassian went hot, then ice-cold. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_!! Organa had found the weapon he’d secreted in on his person and palmed it. Now he studied it curiously. No one at the reconciliation negotiations was supposed to be carrying weapons, never mind concealed weapons; the only reason for Cassian to be carrying one would be nefarious; and because that Cassian had been found out, his life would be forfeit—

“Talented indeed, I see, and a bit of a rebel. But young men such as yourself really shouldn’t be carrying such dangerous weapons, Willix, so I think I’m going to hold onto this awhile,” Organa said mildly, as if he were remarking on the weather. Then, with a deft, quicksilver motion completely unlike any pampered politician Cassian had ever seen, he disappeared the vibroknife into the voluminous folds of his robes. “For safekeeping, you understand.”

“I-I…” Cassian had never been at such a loss for words.

“You can have it back at the end of the week. Just remind me—ah, look, the first course is arriving! They tell me the salad greens are a local delicacy. Possibly worth dying for.”

“Umm, yes, sir. The salad should be excellent, sir,” Cassian muttered. He wasn’t sure he appreciated that _double entendre_ about dying.

They talked no more of anything of substance for the rest of the evening, and nothing else untoward, assassination or assignation, happened that night or during the rest of Organa’s visit to Fest. Cassian was the consummate local staff liaison and nothing more, and Organa was the consummate political operator and nothing more. At first, Cassian was terrified that Organa would turn him in. But he didn’t, and the fear eased. Another failed mission and nothing more. At the end of the week, however, an hour or so before he was scheduled to depart, Organa mentioned to Cassian that he might get his vibroknife returned to him should he so choose by comming a man by the name of General Davits Draven.

“—and perhaps we will meet again soon. Oh, and please call me Bail from now on instead of ‘sir.’ Protocol be damned; I’m a bit of a rebel myself,” Organa—Bail—added with a sly wink, and Cassian could not mistake the note of erotic promise which seemed to hover in the silent spaces between Bail’s speech.

“I will,” Cassian said.

END

**Author's Note:**

> Posted to the exchange on July 7, 2019.


End file.
